Family Letters
by Ishmaela
Summary: What Dave's parents and sisters would write to him if they could
1. Letter from a Mother

mother Disclaimer: All your Dave are belong to me. 

Uh...really... 

A/N: This is sort of a sequel to "Ooh-Oooh Child," an earlier fic I wrote. At least, I'm using the same ideas for the Malucci family situation and my version of what happened...at least, for this universe. I've got other Dave fics in the works where things happened completely differently. But for the people who asked if I was going to continue "Ooh-Oooh Child," this is another in that series.   
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My dearest son, 

If I could say one thing to you and know you'd believe it, it would be this: It was never your fault. 

I say it to you all the time, but of course, you can no longer hear me. And even if you could, I don't know if you'd believe me. But it's true, David...what happened was never your fault. Even though your conception was the catalyst for my marriage to your father, I would never change that. Nor would I change those first few years, when even though things weren't going well with your father and me, your sisters were born. The years after? Yes, those I would change. 

Why did I stay with him? I honestly don't know now. I suppose part of it was the memories of the good times he and I had, although those good times became fewer and farther between after our marriage. And part of it may have been my upbringing, and my own father. I had already let him down by getting pregnant out of wedlock; how could I let him down even more by becoming a divorcee, especially a divorcee with three children? And so I stayed. 

Do you know how much it breaks my heart to see you blaming yourself for what happened? Dave, if anything, _I_ let _you_ down...you and your sisters. Whenever I hear you thinking it was your fault, I wish I could take physical form again and hold you, like I used to when you were a little boy, smoothing down your hair and rocking you softly while singing to you about how things would get better. _I_ was the one who stayed. You and your sisters had no choice in the matter; I made that choice for you. And it was a choice I had no right to make. And look at what that choice has cost us all. And of us all, I think you paid the heaviest price. I'm beyond it all now, Nicole and Angela are both out of their pain in their own ways, and your father...well, your father got off cheaply. 

But you, David. Every day, I watch you hurting, hiding it all inside. Yes, you smile and laugh with your coworkers, but they don't know what I know...that it's a facade. I watch you bed countless women, and I see you in the dark afterwards, after the warm body beside you has gone to sleep, and I feel the emptiness you feel inside. I know the longing you have, the consuming desire to reach out to someone, to anyone, but I also know the fear that holds you back. And I know how you plant the seeds of your own defeat in every move you make. 

But there are parts of your heart that even I'm not privy to. And what I can't understand is _why_. Why do you feel so worthless? Why are you so afraid of doing well? You were always the strong one in the family. You were the one who willingly took on the blows when you could, distracting your father from me and your sisters. Granted, you couldn't do it every time, but you tried. And God help us, we let you do it. You were our hero...mine, Niki's, even Angie's, though she would never admit it. Now you use that strength to hide away from other people. 

I suppose we did that to you. Not just your father...all of us. But me most of all, because I could have stopped it. I could have taken your sisters and walked out, and never come back. But I didn't, and now you're paying the price for that. And blaming yourself for it, when you were the most blameless of all. 

I remember reading you a story when you were a little boy, the story of King Arthur and his knights. And I remember how your eyes lit up as I read, how you seemed to hang on every word. When we reached the chapter about the quest for the Holy Grail, I don't think you breathed the entire time, you were so caught up in the story. And I remember the ending of that particular story. Sir Galahad, the purest of heart...he achieved the Grail, but he lost his life. 

There are so many things I wish I could tell you now. But I can't. I'm dead, and I can only watch you and hurt with you, wishing I could somehow take your pain away. Wishing somehow I could make you believe. 

It was never your fault. You were my Sir Galahad. And, oh God...what it cost you to be. 

Your loving mother,   
Antonia B. Malucci 


	2. Letter from a Father

father You sorry little bastard. 

It was all your fault. If it hadn't been for your whore of a mother getting knocked up with your stupid ass, I would've been a free man. But no...at the age of nineteen, I was marched down to the courthouse by my pops and Sal Bianco, and when I left there, I was saddled with a wife and a kid on the way. Ma cried like I was dead or something, and Pops just scowled and told me I had to grow up and take responsibility now. And Sal...Jesus Christ, if there was ever a father-in-law from hell, Sal Bianco was it. And you brought all that upon me. 

I never wanted any fucking kids. I never had to deal with any rugrats growing up, and I damn sure didn't want to when Antonia got knocked up. Bitch should have known better than to get herself pregnant. But I tried to make the best of it at first. I figured, what the hell. I'd have myself a hot little wife, and as long as she did her job and kept the rugrat out from under my feet, at least we'd be semi-happy. 

And believe you me, Antonia was a hot little number. A little too much into the books, but was she a looker, with those big brown eyes and legs from here to Miami. I always had an eye for the ladies. You oughta understand that, Davey; you got an eye for 'em too. A chip off the old block in that department, that's for certain. And I can say one thing for you: at least you've had the good sense to keep from fathering any little rugrats of your own. I guess that's one thing you learned from your old man. 

But where was I? Oh, yeah...Toni. For a supposedly smart broad, your mother was damn stupid. Couldn't keep house to save her life. Couldn't fucking boil water. And couldn't keep you from aggravating the piss out of me. So I had to keep her in line, you see. And when you started getting bigger, I had to keep you in line too. That's one thing _I_ learned from _my_ old man. And you'd think, given how Sal Bianco was, that Toni would have been taught how to behave like a proper wife. But no...Sal and Mary put all these ideas into Toni's head about how she could be more if she wanted. So after you and your sisters had started to grow some, I had to listen to all this crap about how she wanted to go back to school. Fuck that. I never gave a rat's ass about school, dropped out in my sophomore year, so why should Toni go giving herself airs about going back? Fucking bitch. She just wanted to be better than me. 

She was my fucking wife, and no school could teach her how to be that. She didn't need any fucking school. Hell, she didn't learn how to give head in school, but she did that okay. But I shouldn't oughta say such things about your mother to you, eh, Davey? Heh. See, I knew what that school business was all about. She was hoping to use that as an excuse to leave me. And even though by that time I hated the fucking sight of her, I wasn't about to allow that. That little cunt wasn't about to make a fool out of me. 

Honestly, though, the first couple of months weren't so bad. Toni hadn't started to balloon up like a cow yet, and she was still in the mood for getting laid most nights. And even when she lost her shape and wasn't interested in sex anymore, it was still okay. But then your sorry ass came and all bets were off. Worthless as Toni was, I had been the center of her life till then. But all of a sudden, she was all wrapped up in this little wrinkled, squalling lump of skin, and I could've never existed for all she cared. 

And then your sisters came along, and they were okay. I still didn't want any kids, but Toni pretty much took care of you all, and at least your sisters were pretty to look at, unlike your ugly mug. They got Toni's looks. The only thing of Toni's you got were her brains, but you use 'em about as much as she did, don'tcha, Davey? 

So here I was, in my own house, but surrounded by a bitch I couldn't stand, her sorry whelp of a son, and two little girls that were at least bearable. My own fucking home and I couldn't even relax in it. And that was all your fault, too. Always getting underfoot, always breaking things and making a pain of yourself. You were a lot more of a pain in the ass than your sisters. For every time they'd do something stupid, you'd do something even worse. Maybe that was why, annoying as your sisters could be sometimes, I was easier on them. 

And they were pretty little girls. I could tell when Niki was born that she was gonna grow up to be a hot little thing like her Mama. Same with Angie. Of course, given how Toni was, I couldn't expect much more out of 'em. Figured they'd probably follow in her footsteps, get some poor joe all hot and bothered over 'em and end up knocked up before they were twenty. Still, I treated the girls okay. I even babied them every now and then. Couldn't help it. Like I said, I've always had an eye for the ladies. A pretty thing could always wrap me around her finger every time. 

Trouble was, eventually Niki turned on me. I figure that was your fault, too. You and she were always pretty close. I don't know how you did it, but you convinced her I was the bad guy. And of course, she was too young to understand how it was, that I'd never wanted a fucking family in the first place, and just got stuck with one because of her punk of a brother. But I had my Angie. Maybe it was because there was such an age gap, with you and Niki being born a year apart, and then Angie five years later. But Angie was always her Daddy's girl. 

And of course, once Niki turned on me, she turned into as much trouble as you were. Oh, she managed to wait a few years before turning into big trouble, but I shoulda known it was coming. Pretty girl like her. And as big a slut as her Mama. Walking around the house in those little tank tops and shorts once she started growing boobs and long legs. She wanted it. Just like I knew Toni wanted it that first day I saw her at the ballpark, sitting cross-legged on the bleachers with that little skirt riding up her legs. Hot, I tell ya. I couldn't help myself. Especially after a few beers. 

I've always had an eye for the ladies. 

How was I supposed to know that Niki would down a fucking bottle of Valium? Fucking little cunt set off a powderkeg then. The shit hit the fan, and when it was all over most of the fucking family was wiped out. But you're still standing, Davey boy, and believe me, that's not because I bore you any fatherly good will at the end. I shoulda slit your miserable throat when I had the chance. But I hesitated, and the next thing I knew, that police marksman's bullet went through my head and that was all she wrote. 

Your fault, Davey. What the fuck were you thinking when you charged at me, for the first time ever in your fucking miserable fifteen years of existence? Did you think you were defending your sister's honor? Avenging her? You shouldn'ta tried to hit back, you little bastard. That was the one thing that capped it all. I lost it when you charged me, when you threw that punch. And you see what happened after that. Your fault. 

Yeah, pretend you don't hear me, you little cocksucker. You hear me all the time, don't you? I'm that little nagging voice in the back of your head that you can't get rid of. See, that's where I had the last laugh on Toni. She doesn't even know. She sits up wherever she is now weeping her pitiful little tears for her precious little boy, wondering what it is that keeps you back. But I know. 

You're afraid you're gonna turn into me. 

You've got my eye for the ladies. You've got my temper. And the day you fly off the handle and hit one of those girls of yours, I've won. 

But you know what's even funnier, Davey?  
  
As long as you're so afraid of turning into me you're too paralyzed to do _anything_, I've won, too. 

Yeah, I may be dead, Davey. 

But I win. 

Remember that, you little bastard. 

I win. 

Your father,   
Victor Malucci 


	3. Letter from a Sister (1)

niki Hey, big brother. 

I really miss you, you know. Even though technically I never left, I miss you. I miss talking with you and laughing with you and even sitting around doing nothing with you. I miss the arguments we used to have over who would get to choose which cartoon to watch, and the way we both bonded together when Angie was old enough to watch and _he_ always made us let her pick because she was the baby. How she would always pick something stupid and you and I would go outside to play, grumbling about how we weren't gonna watch any dumb baby cartoons. 

I remember you teaching me how to hit a baseball in the vacant lot behind old Mr. Bertram's store, and all the games we'd play back there. And I remember that one time I hit the baseball too hard, and it went over the fence and through one of the store windows. We both stood there for a moment with our mouths open, then we ran like hell. And once we got home, we fell down in the front yard laughing. Laughing because of what I did, laughing because the run home had been exhilarating...but laughing in fear as well. 

I wonder how many people would understand the concept of laughing in fear. 

We thought at first that we hadn't been caught. But someone, we never found out who, told Mr. Bertram they'd seen "those two Malucci hellions" in the lot. And of course, Mr. Bertram told _him._ And when _he_ confronted us, you told him that you were the one who hit the ball. And the next day, your homeroom teacher pulled me out of math class to ask how you got that black eye. I never told you about that. She'd asked you, but you told her you'd gotten into a fight with one of the boys in our neighborhood. I guess she thought if she couldn't get the truth out of you, she'd try to get it from me. I know she didn't believe me when I told her the same thing you did, because I started crying. But in the end, I didn't tell her anything different than what you had, so she was forced to let it drop. 

Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I'd told her the truth. 

One of my earliest memories of you happened when I was about five and you were six. Mama was in the hospital after having Angie, and _he_ was taking care of us. We were supposed to go pick them up that day, and _he_ had gotten us up and dressed, and we were at the table eating breakfast. I had on a new dress, and while I was trying to put jelly on my toast, it fell and got on my dress. _He_ started yelling about how clumsy I was, getting up from his seat and storming over to mine. All of a sudden, we heard glass shattering, and when _he_ looked in your direction, he saw the shards of your juice glass at your feet, orange liquid puddling aroud your chair and running into the cracks between the tiles. _He_ forgot all about me then, and you met your new baby sister for the first time with a hand-shaped bruise on your cheek, and other bruises on your arms and legs. _He_ probably would have done worse if he'd seen what I saw. You dropped that glass on purpose. 

That's when I realized. 

It's odd, really. Every sister loves her brother, but that love is sort of like your blood running through your veins, or the wind, or the fact that grass is green. It's something that's there, but you don't usually notice it. I think many sisters go through their whole lives without slamming up against the hard fact of it. But that day, I realized I loved you. And that realization kept me from making the same mistake some sisters make when they're mad at their brothers and think that they hate them. And even though we were close, we certainly had our fights, but never once did I ever think I hated you. 

Because you always kept _his_ attention diverted from me, and from Mama and Angie, too. Whenever you could, you would find a way to make _his_ anger turn away from whoever had been unlucky enough to draw his wrath and onto you. How could I not love you for that? Granted, in those early years _he_ didn't often turn his fists on me, but when he did, you were there. 

When I was younger, I thought _he_ loved me. Oh, I knew _he_ didn't love Mama anymore, if he ever did, and I knew you had never held a place in his heart. But _he_ would come home from work most nights and pull me up onto his lap, running his fingers through my hair and telling me I was his pretty girl. At the time, I thought it was _me_ that _he_ loved. I didn't realize that if I had been a boy, I would have been just as subject to his black rages as you were. 

Looking back, that might not have been such a bad thing. 

I don't know exactly when it was that I stopped being _his_ little girl. I do know it was a gradual thing. As I grew older and realized that _he_ wasn't just keeping "order" in the house the way he claimed, I also realized that the battle lines had been drawn in that house since before I was even born. Mama and you on the one side, _him_ on the other. And when that realization dawned, I knew that I would one day have to choose my side. And I chose to cast my lot where I loved, so I'd stopped being _his_ little girl even before I stopped being a little girl. It wasn't that hard of a decision to make; I had my big brother to protect me. 

But you couldn't protect me from everything, Dave. You couldn't be around twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And even though you could draw _his_ anger away from me and turn _his _fists onto you, you couldn't have done anything to divert what finally happened. 

I don't know why I didn't see it. Even though I was getting to the age when I didn't feel like a child anymore, I never saw my body as anything less than childlike. I should have known. You had started to secretly (or not so secretly) check out my friends. I should have noticed that _he _would check them out sometimes too. I should have made the association that the same traits they had developed that made _him_ check them out were things that had happened to me as well. _He_ accused me of flaunting myself to him the day it happened. I never even realized I had anything to flaunt. 

I was fourteen years old; how could I have known? 

That's what I keep telling myself. I was only fourteen. But I still feel responsible in so many ways. Maybe not for what _he_ did to me, that responsibility was his alone. But when I took that bottle of pills, I set everything in motion. The horror that came afterward, I caused. Oh, I can tell myself that we'd been sitting on a powder keg forever in that house, and that one day it was inevitable that there would be an explosion. And on some level, I understand that. But I can't help feeling that I'm responsible for what happened that day...and for the way you've changed since then. 

You were always so brave. You weren't afraid to risk either your body or your heart. But now, though you'll still put your body on the line on occasion, the big chances are ones you won't take. And I think that's what I miss the most about you: my bold, brave brother. 

And it's the ultimate irony. You were always there for me when I needed you, and now, when you need someone to be there for you, I can't be. I can't return what you always gave so freely. And it would be so easy to do. All I would have to say is four words. 

_You're not like _him. 

I see the battle that goes on for your soul now. And I can't do anything to help. And that's what I regret most of all. 

Your little sister,   
Nicole Malucci 


End file.
